


Last One Standing: Simmons

by PGT



Series: Last One Standing (13 finale au series) [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: All-but-one au, Gen, Post vol13, Simmons is the narrator's uncle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8645137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: AU where Simmons was the only one that survived the volume 13 finale. Takes place on earth, after Simmons returns from war.





	

=

Uncle Richie is someone I’d always heard about, but he almost never came to holidays, so we did’t see him often.

The first time I remember seeing Uncle Richie was at Grandpa’s funeral. It must have been a surprise to the family, Grandma seemed disbelieving that he’d showed up. He wore a black suit like everyone else, but he stood out like a grey-scale man in a field of flowers.

He had thinning red hair like my father, and a clean shaved chin despite appearing well over forty. His eyes were two different colors, and he wore maroon gloves.

What comes to mind most from that event was when he went up to grandpa’s casket. The adults were all in a group talking together, us children trying to keep busy with little entertainment. Uncle hadn’t joined the congregation. He stood on the sidelines, gloved hands in his pockets, heterochromatic eyes fixated on nothing, it seemed.

He must have been deliberating whether or not to go up, I realize now. His darting eyes slowed, and he took his hands out of his pockets as he pushed off the wall. His left fist was holding something.

The adults were reminiscing, and the stranger’s behavior was far more interesting than hearing stories about Grandpa. I inched closer until I could hear him. His voice was high for such a tired looking man.

“…never thanked him enough. He was a better father than you ever were.”

His gloved thumbs ran over the items in his hand: three sets of chains, each with a set of red-tinted dog tags. I couldn’t read what they said, and tried to inch closer to do so. His head turned to me then, his glowing red eye stopping me dead in my tracks. He left grandpa’s side in a hurry, moving to place the chains around his neck. Grandpa’s cheek was wet, but Uncle Richie hadn’t been crying.

The next time I saw him was nearly nine months later, the first Christmas since Grandpa had died. He hadn’t brought any gifts, and must not have expected any in return. I noticed my dad handing him a card discreetly while Grandma served turkey, but he refused to accept it.

Christmas dinner felt different. The clinking silverware was shrouded by chatter as it always was, but there was a feeling of tension. Grandma directed a line to the table, commenting that this was the first time Grandpa wasn’t here to say grace. Dad recalled a story from a few years prior, but I stopped listening quickly, distracted by Uncle Richie in the living room. He had refused to join at the dinner table when dad urged him to come, saying there wouldn’t be enough chairs and that he wouldn’t be able to eat anything anyways.

He was listening, though. His glowing red eye was fixed on my father’s head as he talked about Grandpa, and I caught him pulling out the three chains from beneath his coat and argyle sweater. Two flumped onto his chest, and he rubbed the third between his signature gloves.

I asked my dad if I could use the restroom, and he shooed me away to continue his story. I left my chair and headed straight for Uncle Richie’s seat in the living room. His eyes caught me midstep, but he didn’t stop touching the chains, and he didn’t tell me to leave.

I read the tags on his chest, only understanding the first thread of information on each: names.

**_Richard Simmons_ **

**_Dexter Grif_ **

“Who’s Dexter Grif?”

He looked down at me, red eye like magma and his expression stiff.

“He was a soldier in my squadron.”

“Why does your necklace have his name on it?”

“His sister gave it to me.”

“Why?”

“Said he’d want me to have ‘em more than her.”

“Why”

“’Cause she was a slut that always disappointed him.”

I didn’t know what the word meant, but it shut me up for a second.

“Whose is that?” I pointed to the one he held.

“My sergeant’s.”

“Why do you have his dog tags?”

“No one else wanted ‘em.”

I wanted to ask more, but mom called for me then, and Uncle Richie’s stiff expression was cracking, so I left him to his memories.

Eventually the family drifted into the living room. Dad offered to help with the dishes, Mom was talking with Grandma, and Uncle Richie was last seen entering the hall of bedrooms.

I followed his path down the hall, pressing an ear to every door to try finding him. Between Grandma’s room and my dad’s childhood bedroom I caught the sound of metal against metal, along with Uncle Richie’s voice, lower in pitch than it had been in the living room.

“Kai’s is better than mom could ever make. Wish she didn’t make me come… it’s just like the funeral.”

He fell silent, then the bed creaked as weight fell onto it. I pushed the door open and found the grown man curled up on a twin sized mattress. Cautiously, I tapped his arm, and I was shocked to feel how firm it felt. I squished it, and his eyes opened, the dim red light casting onto the wall behind me.

He was silent for a second, observing me. Then, “Did you want to nap here?”

I shook my head.

“What do you want, then?”

“Why’s your eye glow?”

He paused, huffed out a sigh, then sat up. Whether he’d invited me onto the bed or not I climbed on, taking possession of the blankets he hadn’t been using.

“There’s your cousin to play with, you know.”

I nodded.

“Why not play with them?”

“They’ve got each other, Uncle Richie. You’re all alone.”

He laughed, a short but high-pitched snicker.

“Why’s your eye glow?”

“’Cause it’s not a real eye. It’s a Christmas light, essentially.”

“Is your arm fake too?”

He nodded. “everything but my brain, some skin and my right eye.” He removed one of his gloves, revealing cold metallic fingers gaudily painted with different shades of red and even a touch of dark blue. I touched the pink parts and he smiled softly.

“It’s ugly,” I blurted, the colors making no rhyme or reason to me at the time. But he only hummed in agreement, and I never understood why he never repainted his ugly hands until much later.

We continued talking after he put his glove back on. I asked him about Kai, and he explained that she was Dexter’s sister.

“The slut?”

He smirked when I said it, but he shook his head soon after. “She’s not anymore,” he murmured. “Got a good wife, four kids, she’s done hopping around. Usually they have me over for Christmas, they’re more like a family than you guys.” He talked about Kai and her wife to me. I think he was just glad to have someone to talk to that didn’t bring up her brother. His stories breezed by me though. I was entranced by his expression. He seemed happy, talking about these people I’d never heard of.

My dad’s voice from the living room cut Uncle Richie off. His smile faltered and he seemed embarrassed. “Seems I’m holding you up.”

I left, and my dad got me ready to go home. On the ride home, I asked my dad why Uncle Richie didn’t like coming to holidays. Despite seeming confused at my sudden interest, he told me about his brother. Richie never liked grandpa, I learned. Grandpa wanted him to play sports in high school, and never supported his desire to be a computer programmer. He told me that when he was of age, Richie applied to join the army as a space marine, and that he didn’t come back for eight years.

“My brother’s a lot different, now. He’s all metal, and he doesn’t like talking about his past. I think he takes the blame for what happened to his friends. Dick’s more mature than I ever knew he could be.”

“Uncle Richie likes talking.” I commented quietly, and he hummed in confusion.

“Uncle Richie told me all about Kai! About how she’s got four kids, and how she cooks nice turkey, and how she’s not a slut anymore ‘cause she’s got a wife!”

I was proud of myself for the knowledge I had, but dad seemed disgusted by what I’d said. “Who taught you that word?”

No one taught me that word, not deliberately.

“Uncle Richie, I guess.”

That night, I learned several years later, my dad called Uncle Richie and learned more about his brother than he had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> May continue this later, not sure though. have lots of ideas for the simmons portion, and I'm tempted to write a version for each of the people in the 13 finale.


End file.
